


Soft Skills

by otherwiseestella



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Dogging, Audi R8 - Freeform, Car Sex, Date Night, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingering, Grand theft auto, M/M, McDonalds Drive-thru, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex in a Car, Smut, car theft, driving incredibly fast, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 03:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20614520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: ‘Welcome back, Galahad. Enjoy your week’s RnR— and a reminder that all agents are expected to maintain their soft skills during extended leave. M.’Well that’s weird. Merlin could be a bit more specific. What are his soft skills anyway? He’s pretty ace at blowing raspberries on Daisy’s tummy to the Octonauts theme tune, but he doubts that’s what Merlin’s on about.***In which Eggsy's going to be assessed on his soft skills, and that means...well, it probably means getting all dressed down and stealing an incredibly expensive car, doesn't it.





	Soft Skills

Eggsy’s office is cool and dark, and the air-con tickles his skin after a week spent sweating in Belize. He shuts the door, sends up the blinds, sticks some tunes on his headphones, fires up the computer. He’s not been off email, really, but the last bit, with the diamonds in the coffin and the unnecessary lasers, means there’s probably urgent stuff he ain’t got to yet, wants a clear desk before he gets home to Harry.

Doesn’t get very far, though, before he looks down, notices a memo on his desk. They’re a joke really, in a department so hyper-digital that Merlin’s often accused of micro-chipping risky agents. But he gets them sometimes, handwritten on paper that dissolves in water, tastes a bit like melon if you have to chew it. S’nice, even if he’d rather have strawberry or something. Might flag that up at the next research development meeting, if he ain’t pissed Merlin off that week.

‘Welcome back, Galahad. Enjoy your week’s RnR— and a reminder that all agents are expected to maintain their soft skills during extended leave. M.’

Well that’s weird. Given he’s about to chew the note, it seems pretty weird that Merlin couldn’t be more specific. What are his soft skills anyway? He’s pretty ace at blowing raspberries on Daisy’s tummy to the Octonauts theme tune, but he doubts that’s what Merlin’s on about.

He taps his specs, sends a snap of the memo to Harry, and heads into his inbox with a degree of trepidation.

‘You think they want me back dealing?’ He asks Harry during dinner, apropos of absolutely nothing except a sudden urge to get baked, and the faint melon taste of the memo paper still lingering. Might be nice, get a little bit of weed on someone else’s money and it’s not like he weren’t good at it, least at mid-level. One of the most lucrative dealers on the estate at one point, Dean had told him once, before letting him know his cut would stay the same regardless. He weren’t exactly clued up on incentives, fucking twat. 

Harry gives him a long look round a piece of venison pie. ‘I sincerely doubt that. Dealing isn’t a skill per se, is it?’

And Eggsy’s tempted to school Harry on sales tactics, on keeping your patch, on poaching customers and keeping accounts and how half the time you’re also a therapist or a hook up service or God knows what else, but then he clocks that Harry’s actually just trying to push him to what Merlin’s actually getting at. 

And Harry’s got that glint that means certain kinds of mischief, and so that pretty much narrows it down, and it’s unlikely Merlin’s actually telling him to take a sex holiday given that two months ago he’d looked at him and remarked dryly that he might want to rejig his shagging schedule so that he didn’t actually walk in on them in the offices more than once a month. 

As if he could read minds, Harry arches an eyebrow. ‘It isn’t fornication, Eggsy. I think even Merlin would admit you’re practised enough at that.’

So that leaves… ‘You really think he wants me to go back on the rob?’ 

There’s a little flood of panic, suddenly, and Eggsy can feel his pulse pick up. One of the things he prides himself on these days, that he don’t take nothing because he don’t need to. His mum’s mate Chrissie had won a bit on the lottery and kept up nicking, realised she had a proper problem. He’d only done it when there weren’t much option, and he don’t miss it now. Not really, not when the thrill of flashing a debit card in a shop and it just ringing through no problem is still enough to keep a grin on him all day.

Only one bit about it he missed, really, and that was the cars. Needed a bit of upkeep, that did – you had to know exactly how to get into them keyless high tech ones, couldn’t just rely on hotwiring. But Merlin couldn’t mean cars, could he - he always got such a sulk on when Eggsy talked about makes, models, top speeds, that time he got blue lighted off an airfield and lost them no problem on the Devonshire coast. He reckons its reasonable, given Merlin’s the one in charge of equipment, innit. Flinches every time someone chats shit about accidentally smashing their glasses, so he’d figured any more theft was off the cards.

‘Harry, does he want me nicking cars again?’

And Harry swallows, takes a sip of wine, and then flashes him the most beautiful smile, all teeth and dimples.

‘You put him up to this, then?’

It ain’t a secret. Where Merlin makes that sour face like he’s just taken a mouthful of yesterday’s tea, Harry gets all pink about a bit of light-fingered acquisition. Asks, sometimes, all dead casual which is a giveaway, about what it feels like to slip up through the gears of this car, that one. 

And it ain’t cos he’s looking to expand the garage. He’s got a lovely ride, and he’s dithering over some vintage French soft top thing so they can drive the Amalfi coast with it this summer, but Harry doesn’t love driving like Eggsy does. Not the pedal to the metal proper stomach swooping speed, and yeah, Harry’s driven sequestered vehicles but it’s Kingsman backup that nick em, nine times out of ten. So he likes hearing Eggsy’s stories. And Eggsy likes telling em, usually because they make Harry a very particular type of bedroom assertive that involves flash trainers and cheap jackets and negotiating favours and yeah, it used to feel weird but now he just gets to enjoy getting off over it. 

But there ain’t no way Eggsy’d twock a motor just for the stories. So it’s been a while. And then Merlin comes along, and apparently sends him carte blanche to wreak havoc. And not get caught for it. And probably get a sunny appraisal because he’s the dogs bollocks, honestly, when it comes to liberating vehicles from the unsuspecting public. 

It takes him half a second to toe his trainers on after dinner. ‘Don’t wait up, yeah?’

He shrugs into a hoodie, palms his phone.

‘Well aren’t you keen?’ Harry’s still stacking plates by the time he’s at the front door.

He flashes Harry his best grin, the one he used to use on his mum when he wanted to get away with something blatant, ‘Off to see a man about a dog, Haz.’

‘Ah yes, how pleasingly oblique. One might even think you worked in espionage.’

He kisses him, just a fraction of a press beyond chaste. ‘I’ll doubtless be up.’

‘Don’t wear a hole in the carpet, yeah babes?’ 

Harry throws him a dramatic wave and he slips round the door.

Stanhope Mews is posh. Posh enough that his old gear gets him looks round about, even if he’s just popping out to walk JB of a lunchtime. Post enough that Mrs D next door thought he were two different boys for a while. ‘Thought you fellows might have hired a male maid’, she’d said, when he’d appeared on Harry’s arm in joggers and not suit trousers. Her house alarm had kept going off in random bursts for a month after that. Merlin always hanging about on comms did have its uses.

But in grey stuff, soft trackies and a worn hoodie, snapback low, he’s good as invisible, especially if he stays in the shadows. 

He closes their door with a soft snick, and rather than heading off down the Mews, is up onto the roof in seconds, thanks to the front window and the drain pipe. Ain’t nobody around to see him, and it feels nice to get his feet of the ground without being on the wrong end of some twat’s gun.

He just wants a look at how the streets work from up there- whose got what and where they park it, what security is in place, which sets of car garages need security fobs, which are on a keypad, which posh fucks just assume car crime’s not something that happens in this kind of post code.

It’s nice, all hunched up by the chimney stacks above the Mews, London giving him the full come-on with a flashy sunset, pink light across the sky. If he were out on the job proper he’d have a packet of B&H Blue in his pocket. But as it is he’s happy to fiddle with his lighter, flicking over the pad of his thumb while he makes a mental map of the cars.

Mostly it’s boring shit. Anything they’ve got in the Kingsman garage is out, instant, because where’s the challenge when he can just get one out. Anything he’s done before’s out, too, because Merlin won’t score him high on repeats, will he. Anything old enough to use a key, no way, it’d be like taking cash out a dropped wallet. It’s slim pickings with what’s left.

Maybe he’ll need to go further afield, but there’s something about nicking it right out the next street over and not getting caught. Got to be points for that, innit. Plus, the look on Harry’s face.

It catches his eye from two streets away. Glinting in the sun like a big dead bug, all flash green. It’s absolutely disgusting. Type of car man’s gonna buy after his wife fucks off with her Pilates teacher. It’s the newest Audi R8, which is a fucking joke in London, like buying a tiger to keep in a basement flat. The car for the man who wants you to know he takes coke in corporate bathrooms, that he’s been banned from six of London’s most expensive lapdancing clubs for being a handsy fucker who don’t understand boundaries.

If he squints, he can see that it’s parked at a dog-leg, edging into a second space, like the owner had to park up in a hurry and get to some big fancy appointment, because clearly the twat that drives it is that obsessed with his own importance.

The registration is what catches his eye, though. 

**  
In the living room, where he is pointedly sitting on the sofa and absolutely not wearing a hole in anything, thank you, Harry’s phone goes.

He’s alone, so there’s no reason not to answer, even though is Merlin phoning on the non-urgent line. He’s alone because, for the third evening in a row, Eggsy’s out, destination unspecified but apparently to look at cars. At the start, he’d felt rather confident in his interpretation of Merlin’s little missive. Felt a secret thrill at the thought of Eggsy dressed in an approximation of the clothes he’d first met him in, only this time not stale from a police cell, coming back and telling him all about it, all over and done with in one evening, and a lovely story that finished safely in their bed, Eggsy’s cock in his mouth.

But he’s slipped into it with a degree of interest Harry hadn’t banked on, and thoughts have been stirring - what if Merlin had meant something else - parkour or running a smart line of banter in a rough pub? Or what if Eggsy had begun with good intentions, but become re-enamoured with the process? He would bring it up, he thought, perhaps in the morning.

The phone goes again.

‘Good evening, Merlin.’

‘Might be from where you are, but we’re not all on holiday. Some of us are running around after the fucking CIA, wiping arses and soothing down feathers.’

‘You really should have gone into diplomacy.’

‘That or genocide. At this point I’d be the guy that does the locks on the canal just for a fucking change of scene.’

‘Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘You’ve got some book on the history of the Falklands, haven’t you? I remember you talking about it.’

‘The Delves book? Why on earth do you want it?’

‘Classified. Bring it in tomorrow?’

There’s a short pause. Harry flicks his gaze out past the curtains, into the evening half-light.

‘I'm gathering you've got something to do with Eggsy's little nocturnal outings of late?’

Merlin doesn’t answer for a beat, as if he’s weighing something up.

‘You know, spousal rights to classified information aren’t technically in the Kingsman handbook.’

‘Well it's either you’, Harry feels himself snapping, ‘or I need to be worried.’

‘Relax, Harry. All protocol, all very closely monitored.’

His breath absolutely does not pick up. Absolutely not. He isn’t moved in the slightest by the thought of all of Eggsy’s surreptitious casing being minutely watched, recorded for posterity.

‘It is, is it?’

‘Yes, yes. And your boy’s going for full marks, I’d say. On that note, enjoy your evening, you old pervert.’

‘Pleasure as always, Merlin, do pass my regards to your entirely clear and unsullied inner life.’

‘Fuck off, Hart.’

Harry can’t help smiling as he puts the phone down, and when Eggsy lets himself in at silly o’clock in the morning, he’s still feeling sufficiently indulgent to wank him off slowly under the covers, muttering nonspecific nonsense about how pretty he looks all dressed up to go robbing.

The next day is different, somehow. Eggsy’s not- twitchy wouldn’t be the right word for it- he’s too well practiced for that - but there’s an energy about him, a fizz at the edges. It’s the pre-mission feeling, one Harry knows only too well. The getting-your-head-in-the-game energy. Harry has a feeling it’s going to be tonight. And that’s nice, in a way. It might, of course, just be his incurable tendencies toward Eggsy out of a suit, but he’s beginning to develop a Pavlovian response to that hoodie, and he’d like it to stop.

***

Harry knows. And it ain’t like a point of pride that he’s thrown off, it doesn’t matter, but Merlin’d implied via text that getting past Harry would be extra credit, and Eggsy wants full marks and then some. Apparently, there’s prizes, and he fucking loves prizes. Especially anything Merlin’s got, gotta be worth winding Harry up for.

So it’s ten at night, and he’s kept Harry just that little bit on edge all day, just because he can and ain’t it lovely to see him worked up. Eggsy would absolutely swear down he’s clocked a semi twice today, once when he’d come back from walking JB, once when he’d leaned against the fridge and cracked a can. And well, if he’d snogged him then, bit filthy, all tongue and promise, what was wrong with that?

But now it’s half ten, and he’s dicking about on Assasin’s Creed Black Flag because who don’t love pirates, and he’s onto his second beer. He’s sat with his back to the sofa, but he keeps yawning, and he can tell Harry’s eyes are following the rise and fall of his shoulders.

‘M’knackered, babes. Gonna go up. You wanna come?’ He turns, waggles his eyebrows at Harry sleepily. 

Harry smiles, all dimples. ‘Of course. It’s later than I thought, in fact, and I, at least, am back at HQ tomorrow. No rest for the wickedA, not under Merlin’s watch.’

Eggsy pauses halfway up the stairs, waits until Harry’s on the stair below him. He’s always gorgeous, still makes Eggsy’s heart go all funny, makes his breath come short, so it ain’t acting, ain’t put on when he leans down to kiss him, wrap his arms round him, feel how strong his shoulders are under his soft blue jumper. Feel how big his hands are when he reaches round Eggsy’s back. He forgets sometimes. Might be slim but he’s so strong, all coiled muscle and veiled threat. Just don’t need nothing showy to brag about it.

‘Reckon you can be arsed to rub me off?’

Harry sniffs into his neck, thinly disguising a laugh. ‘You really are incorrigible, aren’t you. Quick rub and a long sleep - like JB’s brother, more or less.’

And yeah, alright, it’s hardly his best line but it wouldn’t be, would it, if he really were knackered? And Harry don’t mind that some nights it’s basically that. Eggsy reckons he likes the way he goes all soft and pliant, can’t be arsed with anything fancy.

Once they get to bed, Harry’s all sweet nothings and clever hands, gets Eggsy off in what might actually be record time, and yeah, most of that’s fucking adrenaline but Harry don’t know that, does he?

‘If I fall asleep down here I’m blaming you, yeah?’ Eggsy murmurs between Harry’s legs. He won’t of course. Even like this, hurried and lazy for effect, it’s still ridiculous how hot this is, how well Harry’s cock fits in his mouth. Wonders if he’ll ever get over it, that velvet weight on his tongue, the salt-musk of him. He swirls his tongue around the head, feels Harry’s thighs tense, knows he’s close.

Considers just sacking the whole of the rest of the night off, taking his time with this, doing the job proper, making Harry see stars and bite marks into his collar bone. Nah. His blood’s gone all fizzy now, thought of everything he’s got planned fills his head even whilst he’s enjoying the little noises he’s pulling out of Harry. ‘That’s it, babes’, he thinks. ‘Come on, let it go.’

He swallows again, buries his nose right to the base of Harry’s dick and ain’t he pleased he can do that these days, and just as his own dick’s wondering if it might be time for another go-about, Harry comes, quiet and muffled above him, come down his throat so far back he can barely taste it, which is a waste, but he’ll make it up to him, something proper fancy, a right all-the-frills fuck soon as he’s kept up his other soft skills.

Every spy knows how to slow their breathing down to sleep-peace whilst remaining alert, and it’s not like Harry’s going to suspect anything after all that, is it? So Eggsy waits forty minutes, then slips out the bed. He’s left clothes in the downstairs loo, not gonna risk getting dressed in the bedroom, Harry ain’t exactly a deep sleeper.

Lets himself out the living room window, the one that opens quietly, that he’d oiled with WD40 the day before just to check. Nicks up across the roof. The twat’s parked in the usual place, except this time he’s absolutely rammed the arse of the car into the disabled parking space that was put in six months ago. Which, great, because then he is exactly the tosser that Eggsy wanted him to be, and nicking his fucking stupid car is the farthest thing from a moral quandry imaginable.

The replacement key fob he’d ordered from the dealership - absolute piece of piss, he cannot fucking believe they fell for it - is snug in his hoodie pocket. The two CCTV cameras are recording a beautiful loop of absolutely nothing going on, because he’d not been told he couldn’t sweet talk Remote Reconnaissance with a packet of biscuits, they key-code to the firing range and his best smile. Fucking aces, the lot of ‘em. It was a nice quick slip down the drainpipe on the other side, weren’t even out of breath.

He walked toward the car, slow and careful, just making sure Merlin hadn’t played some shit joke on his last minute, decided to fill the car with pins or ants or men with uzis. He’s not armed, decided there was no point, not like he used to carry anyway, but it still makes him a little bit twitchy, out on Kingsman business without proper backup, not even bulletproof clothes.

He’ll be grand though, and the car’s all shiny in the streetlight, and it unlocks, quiet little ‘beep’ when he presses the button on the fob. Nice. This is gonna be an absolute fucking cakewalk.

He slips into the driver’s seat. Mental check - everything looks great, not like he’s gonna hang about to double check it, is he?

And then the passenger door clicks open. He starts, slides instinctively back toward the driver’s door, one hand covering, because the last fucking thing he needs is to be attacked when he ain’t carrying. 

It takes his brain a fraction of a second to work out what’s happening. Even before he bends down to get in, he recognises him, He’d know those legs absolutely anywhere.

And then in slides Harry bloody Hart, looking like the cat who not only got the cream, but got to sit on a velvet cushion to lick it slowly at his leisure.

‘Good evening, Eggsy’, he says, as if they’re meeting at some fancy bar and not inside a stolen car at one in the morning. 

‘Oh fucking hell, Harry’, Eggsy breathes. He glances over, and Harry is looking - well, interested would be a very fair assessment. Extremely interested, if the bulge in his trousers is anything to go by. 

He don’t ever forget it, but there’s something impressive about seeing it in action, Harry’s danger kink the size of a planet. Still, s’different when they aren’t on mission, when there ain’t a soothing voice in the ear reminding them of the length of the drop, the number of bastards waiting at the other end, that it’s two lefts and a flight of stairs to safety.

By the look on Harry’s face, it’s actively better than that. He’s looking at Eggsy with that face, the one that makes Eggsy want to sack the entire plan off and take him back to bed, and the fact that he isn’t even out of breath despite making it to Eggsy before the car left is an absolute fucking turn on in itself ain’t it, cardio like that makes Eggsy go a bit dry in the mouth but fuck’s sake, he can’t just sit and stare at him like a moony fucking twat.

‘You trust me, right? You’ve seen me drive?’

Harry raises an eyebrow in assent.

‘Then put your fucking seatbelt on babes, I got places to be and I ain’t sparing the horses.’

It starts like a dream, because of course it fucking does. Posh twat has terrible taste, yeah, but the car itself is like a wet dream wrapped in a disgusting green paint job. Eggsy glides out Stanhope Mews, then he absolutely fucking floors it.

God, it feels good. It feels like nothing else in the world, that surge of speed under his body. Nearest feeling’s probably hitting a tricky mark, but it ain’t quite like this. That control, that feeling that it’s you and the car in some sort of magic relationship, and the stomach-flipping thrill that not yet, but soon, someone’s gonna be after you. 

And yeah, it makes it that bit sweeter that Harry’s with him, that there’s someone to breathe in quiet when he takes a corner fast, when he pulls up through the gears, when he rattles out the back roads. Ain’t like he’d spent hours on it, because it turns out he still knows where the traffic cameras are, where he needs to turn, what roads he should avoid. He takes them down by the shop because ‘course he does, hope’s Merlin’s in, because fuck this car’s a lovely bit of flash and he wants an audience, even more than the one he’s already got.

It isn’t until they’re out of London a bit, onto the A3, that either of them break the silence. Harry’s been content to sit and watch until then. It’s like opera: each tiny normal detail of driving heightened, made hyper-real, transformed from quotidian action into art by speed and skill. And Eggsy’s got such control. They’re doing well over 90, but it feels like nothing, like a relaxed 60, and he’s barely bothering himself - breath even, hands light on the wheel, his control so perfect that the Audi drives straight and smooth. It’s hardly a challenge for him, really. The inner city had been pretty, all quick reactions and muttered curses and dodging through red lights and last-second turns, not that they’d been followed.

But now he’s all relaxed, his features silhouetted in the long summer twilight and the soft lights on the dash. 

‘Can’t believe you followed me. Thought you was asleep, checked your pulse and everything, yeah.’

He’s smiling, even if his voice has just a hint of genuine irritation.

‘I can teach you that, if you like. It isn’t difficult.’

Harry smiles. He forgets, somehow, that Eggsy still tries at things. Not that he doesn’t, of course, but there’s a charming sincerity in the fact that sometimes Eggsy does his best and still can be outpaced, outgunned, out-thought. Not that Harry’s jealous - more delighted, every time he learns a new skill, every time he bests himself - but there’s a pleasing sweetness about Eggsy occasionally bowing to his superior skills.

‘Yeah well, should be flattered, innit.’

‘Well’, Harry says, weighing his words carefully, ‘your skills are...something to behold, Eggsy. And I must confess, there are still aspects to the lift itself I haven’t quite worked out.’

Eggsy laughs. ‘Trade secrets, innit. Ain’t soft skills training if I give it all away.’

Harry makes a noise of assent.

‘Any anyway’, Eggsy flicks a look his way. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

He inclines his head in Harry’s general direction and it takes him a second to realise he’s pointing toward his crotch.

It’s true enough. He’s so...well, he’s lots of things when he’s nicking cars. Turns out he gets this look when he’s concentrating, eyes narrowed, his plush bottom lip drawn in just slight between his top two teeth, and Harry finds it intoxicating. And that’s before he’s even behind the wheel, and not even mentioning the get-up, which he’d rather spare his somewhat flimsy dignity by not mentioning.

But yes, in essence, there’s nothing lovelier than being rock hard and full of adrenaline because Eggsy’s tearing through the countryside like a bullet through a body and Harry Hart’s never been one to deny himself pleasures so why the bloody hell should he start now?

‘That why you’ve been following me then? Thought you was checking up on me, didn’t realise you were into it?’

‘I think that’s a little modest of you. I’m - well - into it might be putting it a little…’

‘Harry, I’m going about a hundred, you’re fucking rock hard, and you been looking at me funny since I put a snapback on three days ago so yeah. I’d say you were into it.’

Harry coughs, shifts in his seat because yes, that is all entirely true, and since it’s been brought up, his erection is a little more...insistent, than it had been before. He idly wonders what the etiquette is around loosening his fly. A high speed car theft situation, sadly, is not covered by most etiquette guides.

Still, he doesn’t think it could hurt.

‘Been thinking about it you know’, Eggsy says. ‘Since I worked out you perved on me kitted up like this. Reckon you must have wanted to bend me over that pub table.’

‘Pub table?’ Harry snorts. ‘I’d have been delighted to have you in the back of the taxi. Arguably, Eggsy, id have been happy with a fumble in the evidence cupboard at the police station, but you were decidedly off limits’

‘M’not now though, am I?’

‘Well it had crossed my mind that you aren’t currently … stretched by the task in hand. And Merlin would want you to be properly tested. Not to mention the fact that I have two hands free, and … other things.’

Eggsy properly looks at him then, disbelief settling lightly over his face as he realises that what he’d assumed was just lovely dirty talk to get ‘em ready for the lay-by or whatever they’d end up in with they stopped is in fact… real. An actual suggestion. Something that might actually happen.

‘Harry, I’m going at about a hundred and it’s quiet, yeah, but the road ain’t empty. You tryna get us killed, you lunatic?’

Harry grins, wide. ‘Of course not, darling. And you wouldn’t let it happen, you’re far too good.’

And well he’s not made of stone is he? Not like his dick ain’t showing some significant interest. And that sounds like a challenge, sounds like Harry putting him up to it and it’s a good thing he ain’t a gambler because he’s proper rubbish at backing down from a challenge. Reckons that makes him a good Kingsman but it might also get him killed by his boyfriend on an A road in the middle of a weeknight.

‘Well it’s not gonna be road-head, steering wheel’s too low, innit’

From the noise Harry makes in the back of his throat, Eggsy can tell he’s smug. That he considers it a win.

‘So what do you think you might enjoy?’ And his voice is all velvet and heat in the dark.

Eggsy touches his tongue to the roof of his mouth, considers like he’s picking from a menu of options, where he’s really trying to work out what’s feasible, what might get him off without getting ‘em killed…

‘Hand down the back of my trackies, yeah?’ 

Harry makes a noise from the passenger seat like someone's winded him. And Eggsy lets himself lick his lips in the low light. There’s a quiet rustle, and Harry’s holding something. The packet makes a tearing sound and Eggsy breathes out - ‘Course you brought lube. Filthy boyscout is what you are, babes.’

Harry feels drunk. He isn’t, but there’s something about the light, the speed of the car, the way Eggsy is silhouetted, the faint ridiculousness of the danger. His heart is kicking, he can feel it, and there’s heat at the back of his neck. He nicks the edge of the foil packet, ready to use it. He can’t work out why it's vital, to have Eggsy like this. So utterly in control, so cocksure and competent and exhilarated, and yet still willing to give him something. 

They can’t kiss, and Eggsy won’t take his eyes off the road for more than a second, so there’s a strangeness to the sudden warmth of Eggsy’s back under his hand. He feels Eggsy’s muscles as he shifts forward in the driver's seat, leans over slightly, lets his t-shirt ride up enough to show the waist of his trackies. He’s warm, and there’s something so perversely innocent about the touch that Harry laughs under his breath as he slips his fingers down to the bottom of his back and scratches little circles with his fingers.

Eggsy likes being petted, not that he’d admit it, and most of the time its part of the run up to something else or the winding down towards showers or sleep, so Harry lingers, lets his fingers raise goosebumps. A car comes in the other direction, and Eggsy doesn’t even flinch or slow, the car moving smoothly inwards to let it past. 

Harry feels his mouth go dry, lets his fingers dip lower. 

His voice, when he speaks, is absolutely calm, level. He might as well be asking about the weather when he asks, ‘So what’s the top speed on this?’

Eggsy’s breath hitches, and it’s clear that despite him not making a noise, not responding directly, he’s absolutely affected, his voice a little bit ragged. ‘Its about two hundred, Harry, but…’ 

‘Good’, Harry purrs, letting his finger shiver gently along the top of Eggsy’s arse, ‘I’m just wondering if you might like to try and aim at it, see if you can’t reach it at the point when I, you know.’

Eggsy makes an actual noise in his throat, then, like he’s already being fucked, like Harry’s voice is inside him somehow. And Harry knows, then, knows that Eggsy, for all his protestations, loves the danger just as much as Harry. Perhaps more, given the heat in his voice when he answers. 

‘You don’t want much, do you? Moon on a stick an’ all, yeah?’

‘I’m sure you’ll manage’, Harry purrs, and he lifts his hand back out briefly, slicks lube over his fingers. ‘After all, I’m the one back here doing most of the work.’

‘Piss off’, Eggsy says, but it comes out sufficiently shivery that there’s nothing but want in it.

He’s beautiful like this. Harry nudges against the edge of his hole, teases round the soft puckering flesh. He’s hot, here, always, hot and smooth because apparently, full-service hair removal is something he’d worked out Harry would absolutely lose it over, and he’s been doing it ever since. 

He’s no idea what he did to deserve him. Certainly nothing on his Kingsman record. 

He glances over at the speed dial. Of course it’s climbing steady as Eggsy moves them up through the gears, waiting for an absolutely straight stretch of road to properly floor it.

They’re tearing into Sussex, up along a straight road on the crest of a hill. The night is probably beautiful, for all it's far too much of a blur to see properly. 

‘That’s it’, he says to Eggsy. ‘Aren’t you doing a beautiful job.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ, Harry.’ Eggsy’s breath is coming in little pants, and Harry can tell from the tension in his shoulders how hard he’s holding the steering wheel. His knuckles will be all white.

‘I only regret’, Harry murmurs, rubbing across him more firmly now, letting his finger push, just a little harder, dip in ever so slightly, ‘that isn’t room for me to lick you like this. I’d like to use my tongue on you.’

‘Fucking death wish’, Eggsy murmurs, but he leans further forward anyway. Harry can see how much he wants it, too, in the line of his body, the pull of his breath. Can smell it, the atmosphere thickening, the car starting to smell of sweat and breath and…

He sniffs. It can’t be - Eggsy wears Armani, almost religiously, and it haunts him now occasionally when he’s away on mission - strange men in the street who make his knees go a little weak because they smell right. But not tonight. Tonight Eggsy smells like cheap green tea and roses, like bars and boys in white polo shirts and….

Harry leans forward, rests his nose between Eggsy’s shoulder blades and breathes in. The back of his neck’s damp, his body tense. Harry feels the pull of his seatbelt as he leans, fingers still working in short, gentle crooks, just the tip of one getting gradually, sweetly into Eggsy.

‘That cannot be what I think it is?’

There’s a soft outbreath, like a hushed laugh from the front seat. ‘Fucking right it is. Know you like it, don’t I?’

Harry wants to ask how Eggsy knows that he likes CK1, that the first time he’d smelled it on Eggsy he’d got so hard he’d had to excuse himself. Eggsy’d stopped wearing it after a Kingsman class on acceptable gentlemen’s scents, and he’d never questioned him. The Armani was doubtlessly lovelier, far more suitable - but bloody hell, the cheap, sweet scent made him hard. Made him so aware of what they were doing, joyriding idiotically fast in a professionally stolen car driven by the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, all cheekbones and spit, all fire and cheek and skill.

‘It rather raises questions about your surprise, however.’

‘Nah’, Eggsy breathes. ‘Put enough on that I knew you’d still smell it once I got back, innit. But now you’re here - fuck, Harry, please, car’s gonna top out in a sec, please.’

If the car’s going to top out, it means that Eggsy must be close to two hundred. It doesn’t feel like it, the long straight road beautiful as they tear over it. The driving is so smooth, his control so unbroken, and who would Harry be if he didn’t want to push Eggsy just a little, really see where his limits are. 

‘Jesus, Eggsy,’ Harry says, although mostly he’s talking to himself.

Eggsy is slick now, hot and starting to relax, the pressure of Harry’s fingertip enough to slip inside him. He’s gorgeous, of course, hot and wet and vice-lick, as if he’s hungry for the intrusion, sucking Harry’s finger into himself as he floors the pedal for one triumphant surge of speed.

Harry thinks, abstractedly, suddenly, that this might be the happiest he’s ever felt. Ridiculous, just the overspill of adrenaline. And yet. He’s certain of it, just then, knuckle-deep in a boy half his age, in a stolen car on a silent Sussex road.

‘Fuck fuck fuck, Harry, fucking hell’, And Eggsy’s chanting nonsense as the car reaches its top speed, and Harry cannot help it, he’s seized with the same wickedness that made him take Eggsy home and teach him how to make martinis - the sense that a door can be pushed, that a rule is made to be broken. 

He leans forward, quite deliberate, and as he sinks his finger into Eggsy, he bites the back of his neck.

Eggsy’s reaction is minute but instantaneous. The car veers, so slightly that at a lower speed it would be imperceptible. He corrects it before Harry’s even closed his jaws, but it registers as a low swoop in Harry’s stomach, and a clenching of the body round his finger.

He can’t catch his breath, suddenly, feels heat pool in his groin, feels everything tighten - certain, just for a second, that he’s going to come in his pants, make a mess because that tiny movement, that split-second loss of concentration, has turned him on more than he thought possible.

Eggsy’s decelerating. Harry can’t work out why until suddenly they’re stopping, the faint smell of burning rubber as he pulls into a layby and brakes, hard.

The layby is long, and edges into the woods, and for some reason it looks familiar to Harry, although he cannot exactly work out why.

He doesn’t have time to disengage from Eggsy’s body though, before he’s stopped the car, is turning in his seat to get to Harry, bring him closer or straddle his lap he isn’t sure, until Harry catches his chin in one hand, and tilts his chin forward to kiss him.

It’s a sloppy kiss, no finesse, and now he’s close to Eggsy’s face he can see the slight pull of the muscles round his eyes, the tension.

‘Fuckin’ hell Harry’, he says when the kiss breaks, lips red and spit-shiny. ‘Absolute bastard.’

‘As if you weren’t in control the whole time, darling.’

‘Yeah well, slacking in your old age innit, if I can still drive this while you’re doing that.’

Harry grins, runs a thumb across Eggsy’s lips, lets it dip into his mouth. 

And Jesus Christ Eggsy’s hard. The adrenaline running through his blood like something between Monster energy drink and Moët. And Harry’s face millimetres in front of him, eyes dark and hungry and it’s nice, innit, knowing they can be quietly rubbing off one minute but the best minute still do this with each other. Mental, this electricity. 

He don’t want to think, he wants to get off, wants Harry’s fingers nice and deep inside him, fucking against his sweet spot but at this point he’s not sure there’s time, is gonna be delighted by whatever Harry’s offering.

They kiss again, messy and wet and Harry bites his lip hard, and it takes him a second to realise he’s moaning, that he’s leaning against Harry, close as he can with the handbrake between them until Harry hauls him over into the passenger seat, sprawled across his lap. Eggsy shifts, gets friction anyway he can, half over Harry’s crotch and half against his thigh.

He’s panting, hands in Harry’s hair, and when he looks into Harry’s eyes he thinks he might just come, the amount of heat in them. Harry’s gorgeous, but never more than when he’s looking at him like that. Like Eggsy’s porn, like he’s something stepped out a dirty afternoon wank fantasy. 

He pulls away. ‘Like what you see then babes?’

Harry licks his lips, runs a finger round the inside of Eggsy’s polo collar. 

‘You look about twenty, you horrid little temptation.’

‘Twenty year old wide boys do it for you then, guv?’ And Eggsy bites his lip, cocks an eyebrow, waits for Harry’s reaction.

‘To my immense disquiet, the one currently rutting in my lap certainly does.’

And Eggsy can’t even think of a good retort to that, is so busy chasing contact, rubbing off absolutely shameless against Harry’s leg. Harry’s hands close round his back, pull him close.

They kiss like that, and Harry runs one hand idly back down Eggsy’s trackies, slips back into position and slowly pushes his finger back inside him. Now he ain’t concentrating on not killing ‘em, he can enjoy it. Throw his head back at the gentle pressure, bare his neck to Harry’s teeth because there’s something about it that makes him push back, bear down when Harry nips him, makes a beautiful little feedback loop that makes him drunk with sensation. Fuck, but Harry is good at fucking him. Knows every single bit of his body that responds, and how. Plays him like a fucking fiddle, and now his bloods like treacle and he’s probably mouthing off but all he can hear is his pulse in his ears and all he can think about is how fucking good it feels rubbing off against Harry.

He can feel the muscles in his legs tensing, can feel that he’s gonna come. And he could rub off the rest of the way, just use friction but instead he shoves one hand down his trousers and finally, fucking finally, gets a hand round his cock. 

Harry looks down, greedy eyes watch as Eggsy wanks off, fast and sloppy and all short little strokes that match Harry’s fingers as they curl inside him, short hard movements that he knows he likes. And it’s Harry’s gaze that undoes him. That steady look, the full force of his attention fixed on Eggsy’s hand round his dick like it’s the most precious thing, the loveliest moment in the whole world. And yeah, ok, he’s soft for it, soft for his approval and the way he shows he loves him by sticking two fingers up his arse in a lay-by in the middle of nowhere, breathing heavily, muttering what good boy he is, how clever, how handsome, how lovely.

And that’s it. That does it. He feels his orgasm rushing over him, everything tensing. He’s been hard for hours, he’s still so fucked on adrenaline and when he comes it’s so forceful, so hot-sweet-tense that he thinks he might pass out. Harry crooks his fingers just so, hits him in the sweet place, and his thighs are trembling and he bites down on his lip and then he’s coming, over his hand and - Jesus Christ- all over Harry’s shirt, his trousers. His brain’s all white light and static and he can’t feel anything but the pleasure of it, all up his spine.

He’s boneless with it, proper taken to bits and the way Harry’s looking at him he’s not far off either. Makes a fairly shit effort to clean up, stops when Harry bends over him, slipping his fingers out slowly so it won’t feel too acutely like loss.

‘You’re appalling. I’m absolutely covered in your come, you do realise that?’ Harry kisses messily at his jaw below his ear, and his voice is all honey and laughter, so Eggsy ain’t fussed either. S’gonna say as much, but then there’s this noise, car window, a little polite tap like a neighbour coming round to ask if they can borrow something.

Shit. Fucking shit.

‘Harry’, Eggsy starts to say but Harry’s already on it, hand on the back of his trousers where, yeah, course he’s brought a fucking weapon along to whatever mad date night this is. Eggsy’s a bit proud though, to be honest. Quite a good date, really, innit: lift a car, get two fingers in, get a bit of violence in the way home.

That’s not it though. Harry’s winding down the window and leaning out, his best customer voice on.

‘Oh no, thank you, we aren’t staying I’m afraid, although how considerate of you to ask.’ He turns to Eggsy. ‘This gentlemen was most interested in your little performance, but I’ve told him that unfortunately we must get going.’

Eggsy’s tempted to put on his best shop-smile, smooth down his vowels and pick up his consonance to reply, but then he remembers: Harry’s covered in come, probably still hard, and he’s still got a snap back on, slouched in the seat with his trackies barely covering his arse and his cock still twitching like he’s thinking about a second go-round.

‘You interested, yeah? Sorry mate, gotta get going, this one prefers a bed, innit’, and Eggsy flashes the man a filthy smirk. 

Then, before he can reply, Eggsy’s out Harry’s lap, and has revved the motor to pull out the layby.

‘You didn’t clock it was a dogging spot?’ He can’t help laughing at the look on Harry’s face. 

‘For some reason, the finer points of Sussex dogging spots have eluded me thus far in life, yes.’

‘S’pretty well known though, yeah? You really never heard of it?’

‘…whereas from your tone, I’m assuming you’ve been a regular.’

‘You ain’t telling me you’ve never been dogging though’ 

‘Of course not. It’s not particularly gentlemen’s conduct even in the broadest application of the term is it?’

‘Yeah but it ain’t that different to go to a fancy orgy is it? Just semantics.’

Harry grins as Eggsy gets a shift on. Eggsy can tell it just from the way his shoulders shift on the edge of his periphery. Probably thinks they’re gonna pull over, give Harry a seeing to. And it’d be fair wouldn’t it, only he’d rather have Harry in good sheets, take his time, see to him properly.

Let him tell him how clever he is, how good.

‘Fucking starving yeah. You wanna go Burger King?’

Harry makes a noise, considering it. ‘Not with my shirt looking like this, no, but I believe there’s a McDonalds drive-through fairly close.’

‘Jizz on a shirt too much for a Burger King? They ain’t that fancy.’

But he knows Harry prefers McDonalds, and he could go a milkshake and enough nuggets to make him feel a bit weird before they take the Audi back.

He pays, of course. His date n’all, and its doubly fair since Harry ain’t got off yet. The McDonalds is basically empty, late night, innit. But the woman at the speaker’s nice, shoves in extra fries for free. Harry goes to reach for his wallet, 

They sit and eat on the bonnet of the car. The drive-through is out of town, enough that the view is the back of an industrial estate. Harry is meticulous, eats two Big Macs like he’s they’ve got a Michelin star, neatly wipes his fingers. Eggsy eats twenty four chicken nuggets and gets most of the way through a massive coke before he thinks that’s enough caffeine, actually, if he ever wants to sleep again.

Merlin’s voice startles them both, intruding on the quiet of the evening.

‘You’ve got company, Galahad. You’ll hear them in a sec.’

‘Tipped the fuzz of did you? You are kind. Where d’you want the car?’

He’s already slid off the bonnet, back into his seat. 

‘Lose them, drop the car back where you left it, forensics will be waiting to give it a clean.’

‘You know you're a bastard, don’t you?’ But Eggsy’s smiling.

‘My pleasure, gentlemen. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and if you do end up on wombles in HMP Brixton then don’t call, for the love of god, just work it out. I’m busy tomorrow morning.’

Eggsy shoots Harry a look. ‘I told him that one.’

Harry raises an eyebrow. ‘I won’t presume to ask what it means, because I almost certainly don’t want to know.’

‘Litter picking, ain’t it. Soft, though, if he thinks I’m gonna let us get caught when I’ve got a standing appointment with your cock.’

Eggsy loses the blue lights before they get anywhere near the industrial estate, finds them a nice little slip-road out into a bunch of sleepy housing developments where they ain’t put cameras in yet. It’s thrilling, even if the adrenaline is ebbing, and when Merlin makes a small, pleased noise on comms, the look on Eggsy’s face makes Harry’s heart feel ridiculously full. He doesn’t say anything, though. Harry just watches, keen and content, aware that the closer they get to home, the closer they get to him taking Eggsy upstairs and getting him onto his knees.

Forensics are all sweetness and light, take the car off Eggsy as if they don’t know anything about the setup. They’ll have it back the next day, no issue, have a lovely evening gents.

‘We should keep nicking it, I reckon.’ Eggsy’s talking half to himself on the way home. ‘Guy’s a twat, and like, won’t take it far.’

Harry grins like a naughty schoolboy deciding to cut class. ‘Of course, I can’t in any way condone it, but…’

‘Fill the whole thing with jelly beans. Or helium balloons like those ones we got Daisy. Move it four spaces. Just fuck with him, innit.’

‘I didn't hear any of that, obviously, and nor did Merlin. Now, shall we? You’ve got one or two things to fuck with fairly urgently.’

‘You are a dirty pervert, Harry Hart’, Eggsy says as they turn up the Mews, ‘now come on, last one to the front door has to take JB out before we go upstairs, and judging by the state of you, you ain't exactly courting delays.’

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks are due to everyone who sweetly and tirelessly cheerleaded me through this fic, which for some reason took an absolute age.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Every single comment/bit of kudos/flail into the void makes tyres squeal in my heart. And for further screaming, I'm on tumblr (otherwise_estella).


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